


Completely Mundane

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-12
Updated: 2010-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mid-afternoon schmoopy porn.  i thought this needed to be part of some grad-student!au, but really it didn't.  watson can hump the sofa even in 1886.  :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Completely Mundane

  
There really was no excuse for it. It was not a secret, forbidden fumble in the dark of night. It wasn't at the tremendous conclusion of a case. It wasn't even a week-end. It was a little after three o'clock in the afternoon on a Thursday, and it was completely mundane. Except that it never is, with him.

Holmes admonishes me for beginning my stories nowhere near the start, but I can't imagine where one might point and say, there, that is where it began. Holmes was in the middle of solving the case of the White Slipper (which he refused to let me publish, calling it "meaningless drivel"), and I had made a few house calls in the morning, but was settled down at my desk to get a bit of writing done. I had notes from three previous cases of Holmes's that needed put into some semblance of order, not to mention the notes from my morning's outings.

"Watson," Holmes said, from the settee, where he was stretched out in his dressing gown with his pipe, unlit, between his teeth. "Come here."

I obeyed, as I always did, and crossed the room to look down at him from above, raising an eyebrow. I didn't need to ask. Either he would tell me what he wanted, or he wouldn't. He smiled, one corner of his mouth turning up, and reached up for my hand. The silk sleeve of his dressing gown fell loose around his wrist, and I have always been unable to deny myself a look at his hands-- long fingers, slender wrist, unimaginably powerful and wonderfully dexterous. I took his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together, and waited.

"The door is locked," he said finally, when he was done looking me up and down. "I don't suppose you'd... you know."

I shook my head, baffled. His cheeks were flushing, I realized, and then I understood. "Holmes, are you propositioning me?"

"Er," he said, lifting his head up and having the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Yes, I suppose I am." He smiled at me again, beguilingly, and I only resisted him for show. And even then, only for a few moments.

"Then I suppose I accept," I said, sinking to my knees. The settee was just the right height that I could kiss him like that, softly at first, and then more deeply, his mouth opening under mine with familiar enthusiasm. He lay our still-entwined hands on his breast, stroking his thumb over my knuckles as I kissed him, and his other hand came up to rest on the back of my neck. He tasted like tobacco and tea-- he had refused lunch, which I regretted extremely-- and his body was warm where it pressed against mine.

I let go of his hand and untied the belt on his dressing gown without looking, being occupied with his tongue in my mouth. It slid aside and I pulled his shirt tails out of his trousers and began to unbutton both. He tried to help, fumbling with the buttons and getting in the way, but I pushed him away from the operation and he relented, cupping my face in both hands instead, sliding his fingers into my hair and pulling gently. The tension tingled in my scalp and turned easily into pleasure, and I kissed him harder. He moaned, encouraging, and I slipped my hand underneath his open shirt, skating my palm across the flat planes of his stomach.

I broke the kiss, then, and he dropped his head back with a sigh, exposing his pale throat. I always want to leave marks on him, purple bruises the size of my mouth, but I satisfied myself with just tasting him instead, biting as hard as I might without leaving the shape of my teeth, feeling the cords of his neck strain as he shuddered.

His fingers clenched in my hair, directing me, and I licked and sucked my way to the hollow of his throat, and below, where I was finally able to suck hard, drawing the blood to the surface and leaving a faint red circle. He groaned and arched into my mouth, and I renewed another mark that was still visible from two days ago.

Having pushed aside his shirt, I made my way slowly down his chest, exploring his flesh with my lips and tongue. He squirmed under me, murmuring encouragement, and I wondered that he could have me on my knees, worshiping him like an idol, with only a fumbling proposition. Then again, I thought, as I cupped the line of his erection through his trousers, it wasn't as if I was exactly an unwilling subject. He moaned again, happily, and I smiled against the soft skin of his stomach.

"What do you want?" I asked, looking up. He rolled his eyes at me, pushing my hair off my forehead and smiling patiently. I narrowed my eyes. He'd called me over on a whim, that much was obvious. Perhaps he'd been watching me work and become aroused simply at the idea of getting up to something like this without two locked doors between us and the world, and on such short notice. Then he didn't expect it to take long, and I'd be back at my notes within the hour. Likewise, because we were only in the sitting room, he obviously didn't imagine I'd be stripping him and putting him on his stomach, as much as I wanted to do that. It just wasn't sensible.

Then there was the matter of his thumb, tracing a line across my lower lip, and I flicked out my tongue to touch it. Holmes grinned, and I went about unbuttoning his trousers.

"I knew you were learning the art," he said, smugly. "Maybe later you can apply it in a manner that will actually catch the criminals, rather than perpetrate the crime."

I bit his hipbone to shut him up, and it worked. He hissed and gripped my hair again in his fists, and I pressed my face into his groin. The smell of him was clean and strong, and I breathed in, making him shudder. The tent of his cock in his smalls was obvious, and I put my mouth to the wet head through the cotton.

"Oh fuck," Holmes muttered, and I would have smiled at the profanity if I weren't so occupied with sucking a larger wet spot into the cloth. He twitched against my lips, and I could taste the salty fluid spilling out. Suddenly I needed to have him in my mouth, feel him stretching my lips and pressing against the back of my throat, and I pulled his smalls and his trousers down around his thighs.

Then, knowing this position would be hell on my leg, I pushed at him until he scooted to one side, and settled myself between his knees. The settee proved itself long enough for two men to lie on, even though my knees were jammed into one armrest and Holmes had his shoulders on the other. Here, he could watch me at my work, whisper filth and nonsense as was his habit, and I could suck him until he begged without putting any undue pressure on my old wound.

When I was comfortable, my elbows on either side of his hips and my face inches from his groin, I took half a moment just to look at him: eyes bright with lust and amusement, face pink, stomach muscles quivering, cock thick and flushed against his belly. I ducked my head and ran my tongue up the length of it, and Holmes grunted, chewing his lower lip. He let go of my hair to rub his thumb affectionately over my cheek, and then take himself in hand and graciously point his cock up towards my mouth. In response to my raised eyebrow he stuck out his tongue like a boy, and I took him between my lips anyway.

As I sank down, he murmured, "Ah, that's it." I pushed up on my elbows and took him deeper, the wetness leaking from the head of his cock easing the way, and my moan was sudden and muffled. His hips jerked, pushing into my mouth, and I let him, taking a breath and relaxing. When my lips touched his hand, he let go and slid his fingers back into my hair. His breathing had sped up, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and I knew without looking that the flush of his face would have by now spread down his chest. I reached up to rub my fingertips over one flat, tight nipple, and he arched into the touch.

"God, yes," Holmes said, "you're so good, John. So perfect."

My own cock was trapped uncomfortably between my thigh and the settee, so I let go of his hip to push my hand into my trousers and adjust things. With it pressed against my belly instead, even the slightest roll of my hips against the settee sent sparks of pleasure through me. I had to release Holmes from my mouth to achieve this, and he opened heavy-lidded eyes to admonish me for stopping. Then he saw what I was up to, and he smirked, pulling me up for a kiss.

"I love the way you get worked up when you suck me," he said when he was done licking the taste of himself out of my mouth. I didn't know what to say in response, but the moan in the affirmative seemed to satisfy him, and he gave me a push that sent me on my way again.

I sucked him hard, his cock sliding in and out of my mouth, wet with saliva and fluid. I teased him, working him with my hand while my tongue slid smoothly around his exposed head, sensitive and pink and spongy under my lips. I took him deep until my moustache met the soft hair around the base of his prick, and his fingers went tight in my hair and my shirt collar.

I realized he was right, that the feel of him in my mouth and the sounds he made as I swallowed him down were working me into a frenzy, and I was pushing my hips against the cushions of the settee over and over. The pressure on my cock was almost too rough, not at all like the slow, sweet slide of sinking into his body, but coupled with the rawness of my throat and the numbness of my lips, it felt right. It felt perfect, in fact, and I was working myself to my peak without his help at all.

I tried to stop, tried to still my hips and focus on Holmes, but it was impossible. When I stilled my whole body flushed hot with want, unsatisfied, and my legs shook. My hands were clutching desperately at Holmes's bare hips as I sucked him and humped the settee. I thought perhaps a change of scenery would distract me, keep me from climaxing in my trousers like a boy, and so I let his cock slip from my mouth and ducked my head to run my tongue over his sac instead. But his heady scent was stronger here, yeastier, and he shuddered and cried out, and it sent me even closer to my orgasm.

"You're going to come, aren't you?" he asked, breathless and sudden. I looked up, and he was staring at me, eyes wide and smile predatory. "You are," he went on. "God, I can see it. Your pupils are dilated, and your face is red, and you're panting like-- like you do when you're close." I opened my mouth, wishing I could deny it, but I was rocking against the cushions faster now, holding onto his hips for leverage, and I just said, "Yes."

" _John_ ," he said, in wonder. He pushed his hands under the collar of my shirt and gripped my shoulders hard, and I dropped my head into the hollow of his hip, gasping against his pale skin. "Come on," he whispered, kneading the muscles of my shoulders. "You're about to make that noise, that you make right before you come."

I started to say, "What noise?" but of course then it became apparent, and he let go of one shoulder to grip his cock instead, tugging firmly, still slippery and shining from my mouth. I worked my hips furiously, rubbing and rocking and grinding, and he carded his free hand up through my hair and jerked himself as he watched me squirm. The pleasure was mounting, rising like a wave, and I was much too far gone to stop it. I was desperate for it, watching Holmes touch himself at the sight of me, the two of us like a loop, me and him, closer and closer just seeing what we did to one another.

"John," he said again, "oh God, John," and then he arched up suddenly and came, shooting over his stomach and slicking his hand. His face contorted, eyes shut tight and mouth open, as if surprised, and he shuddered in waves. It was too much: I came to my peak suddenly and inevitably, spending in my pants and moaning into his hip.

It felt like an age, lying there and shaking, his fingers tight, my cock jerking. Finally I opened my eyes again, and he was slack, loose all over. His hand released my shoulder, and his head lolled to one side as he gazed at me. I tried to catch my breath, and he touched my jaw lightly and smiled.

"Well," he said. "That was unexpected."

"Rather," I replied, feeling foolish. I sat up and felt more foolish still, sticky and cold now, and an utter mess. He reached up to smooth my hair down, and I kissed his fingertips as I stood.

It was fortunate, I realized once again as I was stripping myself of my soiled trousers and wondering at my weakness for Holmes, that Mrs. Hudson refused to do our washing. Holmes came home too often with blood on his clothes, and she had declared years ago that if we were going to go "gallivanting across London all the bloody time," that we could at least do our own wash.

When I got back downstairs in clean smalls and moderately clean trousers, he was still on the settee, decent again, but still lax in the afterglow of his orgasm.

"You're incredible," he said to me as I crossed to my desk. "I do love you, you know."

"Yes," I said, gathering my notes and my notebook and crossing to sit on the floor beside the settee. "I know." And I kissed him.


End file.
